Grime
by Military Mechanic
Summary: His skin is practically crawling at the thought of what germs are now crawling across his palms - and he knows full well what kind of diseases they can carry, his father made sure of that when he was younger, made sure to let him know. He scowls. Reaches for his sanitizer - and why on Earth is it empty?


A/N: Welp, here's my newest obsession. Shrimpshipping. It's really like no one in this entire fandom writes for them!

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Highschool.

Where groups of uncivilized, unsocialized, teenagers gather to gather and try to impress their peers. Where teachers attempt to act like they care even when it's completely obvious that they don't. Where every last thing that Weevil despises is gathered up into one place and forcefully thrown at him.

Because it's good for him and, according to his father, he needs the social aspect that it brings.

Weevil wrinkles his nose up at the thought. It's quite possibly the first time he can ever remember his father being _completely and utterly wrong_ about anything. He's normally right about most things but this? This is complete bullocks.

The only thing that highschool is good for is driving him insane.

-x-x-x-x-

Weevil is almost three months into the schoo year, and he is still just as bad at navigating the halls in between classes. Not only is the highschool close to being a maze, but the stampede of teenagers rushing to get to their next class is almost suffocating. Everyone is bumping shoulders and trampling over one another's feet, scuffing shoes and staining shirts, bruising arms and backs and knees.

It's ridiculous.

Going through it is the only way to get to his next class, Algebra, on time though and Weevil's always hated to be late for things. So he tightens his grip on the strap of his shoulder bag, lest it fall off on the madness, and slips into the crowds.

Right away, he's all but swept away from the English class, caught up in the push and pull of the surrounding students. The only way to get his direction straightened out is by shoving back - and he hates that, because he never knows who he's about to touch, or press against, or duck under, and there are so many people here that could care less about the reason that they'd been shoved.

It's just Weevil's luck that his elbow, because he certainly wasn't going to use the palm of his hand, comes in contact with a much larger, oily-skinned students ribcage. Now, Weevil knows that he _couldn't_ have hurt the other boy; partly because he's pathetic when it comes to physical strength, and partly because it had just been a hesitant nudge. He's also completely expecting the shove that comes back - just not one quite as strong as he gets.

For a moment, Weevil flounders. He waves his arms about and tries to regain his balance, but someone else slams into him from behind and, suddenly, he finds himself sprawled across the linolium floor. His bag slips off of his shoulder, kicked further away from him by one of the stragglers.

"Hey!" yelps Weevil, clambering to get up off the floor and almost falling back down in the process. And, ugh, what is on his left hand? From wrist to the tip of his pointer finger and spreading out to his thumb, something blue and sticky has stuck to him.

Nose wrinkling and glasses rising further up his face, Weevil takes a moment to stare down at his hands. Even though there's no gunk on his right hand, he can _feel_ the dirt and grime coating it. He's pretty certain that his pantlegs are smeared with something, too.

"Oh, this is just _great_!" he snaps, though no one is really around to listen. Most of the students have already dissapeared into the other classrooms, and the ones that haven't are too busy trying to get there. Not to mention that, frankly, Weevil isn't the most friendly person around. There aren't too many people who would stop and ask if he was alright.

His skin is practically crawling at the thought of what germs are now crawling across his palms - and he knows full well what kind of diseases they can carry, his father made sure of that when he was younger, made sure to let him know. Lips pulling down into a scowl, he shoves his right hand into the pocket of his overly large jacket and pulls out his ever constant bottle of hand sanitzer. Popping it open with one finger, he turns the bottle upside down and _squeezes_ - only, nothing comes out.

It's empty.

It's never empty.

He always has a full one with him.

Only he doesn't.

It's empty.

For a long moment, he stares at the small bottle in his hand, mind not quite wrapping itself around the fact that he has no way to clean the filth off of his hands. The restroom, he knows, is out-of-order. Even if it wasn't, there was almost no chance that Weevil would actually _go in_ there and, dear Lord, he can't walk around like this _all day_!

"Hey, bug-boy! What're you doing out here?" a familiar voice calls from behind him, and when Weevil glances behind him he catches a glimpse of Rex meandering through the halls. "Thought you'd already be off in class."

"I'm headed there!" snaps Weevil, and it doesn't matter to him that the brunnet had nothing to do with it. Rex is there now, and a perfect target for the anger suddenly coiling tight in his chest.

Rex raises an eyebrow and smirks, walking over to stand next to him. "Looks more like you're standing around, waiting for the late bell to rign if you ask me. I mean, that's what _I'm_ doing, but you're always so prissy about making it to class in time."

"I'm not prissy, and I'm _not_ waiting for the late bell!" Weevil snaps back, clenching his hands into fists without thinking. The goop stuck to his left hand makes a slight squelching noise, and slides across his palm. The bluenette makes a face and uncurls his hand, shaking it slightly in a vain attempt to get the slime off. "It isn't my fault that this entire school is filled with neanderthals that can't even walk down a hall properly.

He can practically see the pieces fall into place in Rex's mind, as the other boys smirk softens some, lilac eyes taking in the whole picture.

"Shit, you look like you're going to shove that bottle through someone's eyes or something." snickers Rex, eyeing the empty bottle.

"It looks like your intelligence hasn't failed you, dino-brain." retorts Weevil, angrily. He shoves the now-useless bottle back into his pocket - and, really, where is he supposed to go from here? Not to class, that's for certain. He'd never be able to concentrate unless his hands were cleaned...

"Aren't you in a pissy mood. It ain't my fault you didn't bring your cleaning shit with you. Aren't you supposed to be smart enough to remember stuff like that?" asks Rex, only half-way sarcastic.

For a moment, Weevile doesn't have an answer to that. Then he crumples his face into a scowl and jabs a finger at the other boy. "Don't act like you're so smart, you dino-brain." he hisses.

Rex rolls his eyes - because he knows full well how antsy Weevil gets when dirt is involved, and there isn't much point in aggravating him further. If he does, it will go past being playful barbs and they'll end up actually fighting with each other and it always happens like that.

So he pulls out the hem of his shirt and offers it to the other boy. "Wanna wipe your hands off on this?"

"How is that any better?" snaps Weevil. "As far as I know, that's the same shirt you've been wearing all week!"

Rex snorts. "So? It's not sticky, is it? It's one or the other, so take your pick, Weevs."

Weevil pauses, eyeing the black fabric of Rex's shirt dubiously. It's far from being clean, he knows, but, for once, the other boy has a point and he'll do _anything_ to get the cursed slime off of his hand. So he snatches the offered material and starts wiping his hand on it, using the nails of his clean hand to scrape the grime off.

Rex just laughs.


End file.
